Through City and Glen a collection of 221Bs
by TheyMadeMeChooseAnotherName
Summary: A collection of 221B's covering various subjects, but focusing on traditional Celtic lore and folk music.
1. Chapter 1

~Though original Sherlock is in public domain all rights go to the creators of the BBC Show~

They called him fae.

Most meant it as effeminate or weak but then the old ladies of the village would look at him out of the corner of their eyes, and try and get him to touch iron.

It only burned because it was hot.

He played in the woods like any normal child, but with him even the most mundane of tasks became nefarious. He was slated to be special and when they tested him at school he became a hamster. He never used animals in experiments after that, not because he felt sympathy (because sympathy is an emotion and Sherlock Holmes does not do emotions), but because even the stupidest hamster can swerve results.

They hurt his head when he hurt theirs and called him fae.

He liked faeries more than he like God and that's why he chose not to believe in him. He could never impress an all-creator nor make him love him, but he could induce the faeries, with babbles and tricks, to at least tolerate him. Sherlock Holmes was quite clever at making his weaknesses seem like strengths. No one saw the porcelain crack.

And then John Watson.

He was the first revolution and the first sign of grace in Sherlock's life. He was a sign, God and heroes were real.

Sherlock chose to believe.


	2. Chapter 2

John was sitting inside St. Bart's hospital.

That was where he was, not on the sidewalk, not desperately trying to keep the blood inside of his best friend as it flowed onto the concrete, colouring it like some macabre easter egg.

He looked at his hands. Before they'd been washed, they were covered in warm shades of rose and scarlet and apricot. John had stared at the colors until some kindly nurse, a plump middle aged woman, led him to a sink and turned the tap. He felt like a child rinsing off the residue of a finger painting project as the woman cooed over him and rubbed his back.

"There sweetheart, now let's find you a place to sit. " She said using a paper towel to wipe the stained water off his hands. She sat in the chair next to him and started talking, chatting about anything. Occasionally she'd ask a simple yes or no question, John would nod or shake appropriately, and she'd resume talking. Throughout the whole of the conversation she never recognized him as one of the Bart's doctors.

He couldn't say he was upset about that.

They had sat like that until the woman was called away to some other duty, leaving John the same way she had found him except his hands had no blood .


	3. Chapter 3

The shadowy figure in front of him knelt and Sherlock was taken aback. The man was obviously a warrior and he could hear the rings of his armor clink. He could not see his face for the shadows, but the childlike side of him imagined it was a handsome one. The man was garbed in medieval style; chainmail and cloak adorned him. Sherlock nearly dropped his soil samples in shock, but realised that would confess weakness, and held on.

"What are you?" For once in his life, Sherlock's voice wavered.

"I am a man." the figure's voice was rich, "albeit a tormented one."

"Who are you then, man?" The silhouette looked up and Sherlock could see his flight of fancy was correct; he had a strong jaw and golden hair.

"The faeries caught me when I fell." Sherlock could only make out his words by watching his lips, "My lady sister called and I went."

"What do you mean?"

"Her husband beat her," The man went on, oblivious. "He learned of her affair."

"Why does this matter?"

"He killed her maid, her lover. She sent another to tell me."

"What is your name?"

Dangerous eyes looked into Sherlock's and he felt that something was about to begin.

"The fae call me Tam Lin, but amongst men 'tis John."

And it began.


	4. Chapter 4

The babe nuzzled into his shirt and Sherlock cooed softly. His heart nearly melted at the sight of soft skin against violet fabric.

"You look surprised," the man holding the baby looked at John and he could tell Sherlock was disappointed, "you didn't think children would like me."

John put the Daily Sun down and focused on the detective in front of him.

"It wasn't that," He admitted, "I thought you didn't like children."

A pregnant pause echoed through the room.

"I like innocence," he whispers as he holds the child closer, "I like contentedness."

John listened for a moment more, but Sherlock remained quiet. So he shrugged and returned to his paper, as the other man returned to his memories.

It was strange to think that even before she was born he had been the child's protector. His vow had not begun at the wedding, but rather month before, in front of clinic where desperate women went to "fix" their problems.

Her voice echoed weakly, shaking, "It's my right."

He denied her that and took her away from the place, and the child inside her, the child now in his arms, stayed alive.

He clutched her tighter.

If John saw, he did not observe why he stroked her back and hair with such gentleness; only that Sherlock loved that baby.


	5. Chapter 5

People never understood him and it was fine. He was at peace. He held the violin closer and eked out a melody as the neighbors screamed at him. Lestrade was embittered with him. Mrs. Hudson cried for him. Mary Morstan fumed at him. Yet it was fine. He was not angry with himself and never would be again.

"Stop haunting me!" They cried.

He didn't and kept on playing.

Funny, he'd never believed in ghosts when he lived, but now he found it quite amusing to be one. Though the living blamed him, John Watson didn't.

"What they say doesn't matter." John sat in his chair reading a paper, but to a casual passerby it would appear the Daily Sun was floating in midair.

"I know," he responded from above the mantle, where he was experimenting on the density of varying types of wood, "Though I wish that we had known Mary wasn't pregnant."

John smiled wryly. "Maybe we wouldn't have stuck our necks out so far." He shrugged his shoulders, "who knew Moriarty was such a good shot?"

"Well, I should've taken his time in the IRA seriously."

"I should've taken Mary's threats seriously."

"I should've taken Janine's obsession with wealth seriously."

"I should've taken Anderson's obsession with _us_ seriously."

Both laughed.

Oh yes, Sherlock was having a pleasant beyond.


	6. Chapter 6

He balanced on the wire and his arms flailed out. Notes fluttered in the wind and he sang with all the momentum of his flailing arms.

"Damnit Sherlock!" John yelled from the Millennium bridge, "Get the hell down."

Instead he sang.

"I keep a close watch on this heart of mine

I keep my eyes wide open all the time

I keep the ends out for the tie that binds

Because you're mine, I walk the line"

He got through the chorus.

"Get the hell down, you bastard!"

"I find it very, very easy to be true

I find myself alone when each day is through

Yes, I'll admit that I'm a fool for you

Because you're mine, I walk the line"

"You are an utter git, Sherlock!" John called.

"As sure as night is dark and day is light

I keep you on my mind both day and night

And happiness I've known proves that it's right

Because you're mine, I walk the line"

"If you die again, I'll kill you!"

"You've got a way to keep me on your side

You give me cause for love that I can't hide

For you I know I'd even try to turn the tide

Because you're mine, I walk the line"

"Christ, I'll be your boyfriend, Sherlock!"

Sherlock got off the bridge.


	7. Chapter 7

"Listen now children, as I tell you of John, son of Wat, son of war, roamer of the moor, heir to the fief of his fathers, Dartmoor, stretching from river to gushing river, land of the fierce hounds and the swift hinds. Hear of his lord, the warchief Mycroft, great thinker, man of wisdom, lord with a heart of ice, cold as midwinter snow, a heart that only melts at the touch of his beloved, Anthea, or the need of his kinsfolk-"

"Like hell!" Sherlock hissed, "are you at least going to be realistic, Anderson?"

"I'm writing in the traditional style of Celtic ballads," Anderson turned up his nose and gazed haughtily upon Sherlock, "my research was very through."

"Not enough to know that the feudal system only emerged in the twelfth century and yours is set in the," he turned his piercing eyes away from the crime board and stared at the hawkish man, "Did you even bother to choose a century?"

"It's sometime between the Roman's retreat from the island and the tenth century."

"So you have a margin of error of five hundred years and you believe that-"

"Sod off, Sherlock," John gave a weary smile to the flustered man, "go on, Anderson, I like it."

Anderson smiled. "The hedgehog coat of arms the son of Wat bore-"


	8. Chapter 8

The golden light streamed into the room, filtered only by the curtains, it dyed every surface of the man's flat. He put down his violin when he saw the sheet he had been playing from become gilded in colour. In one fell swoop the figure crossed the room and stood at the windows. The light of London, his lover, hit his face and caressed it like a mother to her child. The city whispered to him, beseeching him to end his path of self destruction.

He jerked the curtains closed.

The man was not a poet; he believed more in the term "science" than in the phrase "art".

He dreamed of letting himself rest. Releasing himself from the shackles of his drug of choice.

It used to be love. Now it was cocaine.

He grabbed the syringe, free from one of the city's many needle drives. He didn't give a damn about who saw him anymore. They let him fall. _He_ let him fall.

He retreated to the upstairs bedroom, bringing his dose and a scarf as a tourniquet. He dropped down on the mattress and after a clumsy arm tie, fed his body his sin. In the quiet before the storm he reached for the frumpy sweater stashed in the corner. He held onto it as the east wind blew.


End file.
